


The Asterisk

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: -Ish, 1990s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, Happy birthday Paul, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Making Up, Montauk, Musicians, Old Friends, RPF, argument, kind of, real person fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26581492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: March 1990. Art wants to patch things up with Paul and visits him at Paul's Montauk estate.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	The Asterisk

**Author's Note:**

> I came across a scan of an article from May/June 1990 about Art. It has the little bit in it about Art making amends in recent times, including with Paul, at Paul's Montauk estate. It made the wheels turn in my head (naturally) so this fic is the result of that.

**-March 1990**

When the phone rang, Paul was in the middle of a songwriting session, fooling around with his guitar and trying a particularly tricky chord progression. The phone ringing insistently from a corner of his work space was annoying at first, aggravating by the third ring and left him angrily putting his guitar down by the fifth ring, perhaps a little too hard, judging by the loud clang of the back of the guitar's wooden body against its stand. When he finally made his way over to the black appliance, he was hoping it would have stopped ringing and the caller would have given up. No such luck.

"Yes?" Paul didn't bother identifying himself.

"I need to talk to you," came the reply, from an equally anonymous caller. Except Paul would know that voice anywhere. The way his accent pushed through on the word 'talk', sounding more like 'tawk'. And the way that voice could be entirely soothing in the right setting. There was, however, nothing comforting about hearing it now.

"God, what do _you_ want?" Paul snapped, instantly regretting picking up the phone. He should have let it ring, or better yet, pulled out the chord entirely. He made a mental note to actually remove the phone from the studio in the near future.

"I hear you're in a good mood," Art Garfunkel chuckled on the other end. "I just said what I wanted, didn't I? Are you losing your hearing too now?"

"Talk? What is there to talk about? I believe you said it all very eloquently after Hall of Fame. And fuck you. My hearing's fine."

Only two months ago the both of them had been inducted in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Paul had prepared somewhat of a[ lengthy speech](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fC3T--UfL-A&t=520s), Art hadn't. Art had said Paul had enriched his life; Paul hadn't said something along the lines back. And after the disastrous two-song set they played, with Paul's guitar [so out of tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXkSkSVNgVQ&t=360s) he still had a headache about, Art had exploded and accused Paul of deliberately putting him down time and again in public, letting the audience know they were always fighting, always disagreeing on something, always keeping the tension between them high, the both of them always ready to strike and hurt the other with words in the press every chance they got. The jokes of their break-up were twenty years old, Art had said, and they had long stopped being funny.

Nothing was funny anymore when it came to Art. Their banter, the humor they had both bonded over and that had made them be the best of friends in their early teens would sometimes still resurface, but it was always so buried beneath an insurmountable heap of hurt and pain that it never lasted long. The grudges, on the contrary, always lasted at least a decade. And as such, it was way too soon for Art to try and patch things up; Paul should have at least a few more years left to prepare for another catastrophic attempt at reconciliation.

“Paul, I just—” Paul couldn’t help but notice the way Art’s voice changed, becoming soft and pleading. “I’ve been doing something of a cathartic journey of sorts lately. Cleaning out some stuff. Trying to leave the past few years behind me. I haven’t been myself since Laurie, I know that. And I took it out on a few people, including you. Most definitely you. I’m trying to get ahold of some people and talk to them, you know. Clear the air. Air some grievances, to get them out of our system. And then start fresh. I…I would like you and I to have that kind of talk too. I think it would be good for us. Shouldn’t we be trying to act like adults for once? We’re almost fifty, for god’s sake.” A small pause, and then an intake of breath that felt too loud, too personal to Paul. “I need to have an asterisk next to your name.”

“A _what_?” Paul managed, thoroughly confused. With two fingers of his free hand, Paul rubbed his forehead and his temple. This was such an incalculably bad idea, something that Art with his fondness for numbers should be able to predict and be wary of, and yet.

“On my list. I need you to be one of the people on my list whom I’ve patched things up with.” Art said. He cleared his throat. An asterisk next to Paul’s name on Art’s list. Well, if that didn’t sum up the entirety of their relationship so far, nothing else would, Paul thought.

“Art, I don’t know. You know as well as I do that this cannot end well. I mean, you’re kind of asking me to deliberately set up a meeting so we can have a row. Haven’t we had enough of those?”

“You can go ahead and yell at me,” Art said, his voice pleasantly light in Paul’s ear, as if he was _looking forward_ to another fight. “It would do you good. It would do the both of us good. Just to let it all out.”

“Art—”

“Please, Paul.”

Paul sighed, rendered completely defenseless when Art used his begging voice.

“Fine,” he said in utter resignation. “But I don’t feel much for coming down to New York right now to argue with you.”

“I’ll come to your house,” Art offered, quickly. “Say when.”

“Wednesday work for you?” Paul asked, and when he heard Art grunt in agreement, he added, as an afterthought: “Bring cheese.”

“Cheese?”

Paul laughed and hung up the phone.

+

Art had figured it out, though, when he arrived at Paul’s estate on Wednesday carrying a plastic bag with three kinds of cheeses, a bunch of white grapes and a small box of peeled walnuts. As soon as Art came through the door, without so much as a greeting, he walked past Paul and spread out the contents of the bag on the table in the dining room. Paul felt a flash of surprise at how Art seemed to know his way around the house better than he did, but then again, Paul had shown Art around[ when he came to visit](https://www.artgarfunkel.com/stillwater/poem74.html) after Paul had had the studio wing built.

And then Art finally turned around and, with a very pensive look on his face, let his gaze wander to Paul’s features. Paul could only stare back. He’d only seen Art a couple of months ago, but it somehow felt like it had been years and they didn’t quite know how to act around each other. Did he go in for a hug, or was that too forward? Did he give Art a handshake like he was an acquaintance? A kiss on the cheek, if he was feeling particularly bold?

Art smiled smugly, and Paul was sure that Art was fully aware of the internal struggle going on in Paul’s head. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Art cussed, and crossed the room in three large strides, stopping in front of Paul, and before Paul could change his mind and divert the attention away from his discomfort, Art said “come here,” and enveloped Paul in a hug. It was deliberately careful though, a little insecure too, as if Art was feeling just as anxious about seeing Paul as it was the other way around. Still, Paul melted in the embrace, his hands coming up to rest on Art’s back of their own accord, his forehead supported by Art’s shoulder.

“I missed you,” Art whispered in Paul’s hair, tightening his grip on Paul’s body too.

Paul sighed and turned his head so that his mouth was almost touching the warm flesh of Art’s neck. “How can you miss me when you’re angry at me?” Paul inquired quietly.

“I’m not angry at you.”

“Artie, you’re _always_ angry at me.”

Art grew silent and didn’t deny the allegation. Paul pulled back his head and took a step backwards, effectively breaking the hug and the moment. “This is weird, right?” Paul said, while he moved away from Art and walked to the table in order to scoop up the food that Art had deposited there. “I mean, you coming here—”

“I came here before.”

“Yeah, but now you’re here with the sole intent of instigating a fight between us. That’s pretty weird, even for us.”

Art looked over at him, his eyes tracking Paul’s every move.

“That we’re going to fight is not an absolute certainty,” he said. “I just want—”

Paul interrupted him. “Oh, so I’m just supposed to sit quietly in the corner when you’re going to ‘air your grievances’ and just nod along? Jesus, Art, you _know_ how this is going to turn out.”

Art stepped closer again and briefly touched Paul’s arm with his fingers. “Paul, I really need to do this, okay? Please, just…humor me on this. Like I said, should you feel the need, you can shout at me and call me names.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m going to feel the need,” Paul said, starting to become irritated by Art’s casual tone. As if Paul was really looking forward to hearing how much of a failure he was, how he had done everything wrong since he was an adolescent, and how he fucked both of their lives up in the process.

Paul stacked the cheeses and the grapes on top of each other in his arms, and told Art: “Come on, we’re moving to the recording studio.”

“Why?” Art asked, frowning.

“Well, for one, it’s soundproof. We get to scream as loudly as we want.”

+

“Sit,” Paul told Art, as he set down the food Art had brought on a small coffee table in front of a couch that stood in the corner of the room, where Paul usually sat playing his guitar when he was writing up new songs. Art obliged, removing the leather jacket he was wearing and placing it on the armrest of the couch before sinking back into the cushions.

“I’ll be right back,” Paul announced, and he walked off to look for two glasses and a bottle of wine, the wooden floor beneath his feet creaking with every step. Art was opening up the boxes containing the food when Paul came back and handed him a plate and a cheese knife, busying himself with opening the bottle of red wine.

“Phew,” Art said, glancing at the label of the bottle when Paul was pouring the red liquid in the glasses. “That’s not too shabby.”

Paul smiled. It was a bottle of 1974 Sauvignon that he’d probably gotten from Lorne when they were celebrating the start of Saturday Night Live a year later. “No use drinking cheap wine and giving us an even more painful headache than the one we’re about the set loose on ourselves,” Paul quipped. He handed a glass to Art, sniffing the contents of his own glass before taking a tentative sip. “Hmmm,” he hummed. “Not shabby at all.” Art nodded in agreement when he too had put his mouth to the glass and taken a swallow.

Art leaned forward, pulled one of the grapes off the bunch one-handed, then popped it in his mouth, chewing delicately. He locked eyes with Paul, and Paul thought he felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

“So,” Paul said, to drive the awkwardness of the situation away, fully aware that it probably was going to be heightened even further by what was to follow, “what exactly is this thing, then? That you want so desperately to accuse me of?”

Art started to look a bit uncomfortable, and Paul felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. What the hell kind of therapeutic trip was Art on? What were all these grievances that Art wanted to clear? Had they really not gotten _anything_ right in all those years? It started to look as if they'd never been friends at all. As if they never went beyond the boundaries of friendship, even.

“So here are some things,” Art began, but then he stopped talking for a second. “Um, am I...I mean can I just talk first without interruptions before you inevitably come in with counter arguments?”

Paul felt his face grow hot. He took another sip of the wine, peering at Art over the rim of the glass that he was twirling between his fingers at the stem.

“Inevitably? What does that mean, Art? So I am to sit here and just take your monologue of abuse, is that it?” Paul said frostily, undecided between a frown or an eyebrow raise on his face. Instead his eyebrows did this bouncy thing, his eyelids twitching along in the process.

“No, I—”

“Yeah, yeah, you told me I could yell at you, I know. Let me tell you, I feel more and more like doing just that," Paul continued, his voice already half an octave higher than it usually was. "No prior arguments necessary for that.”

“Fine,” Art said, scowling. “You are such a dick,” he followed up with, the latter sentence hissed between his teeth.

“Right back at ya,” Paul said calmly, cutting a piece of cheese and swallowing it down too quickly. It tickled his throat. "I mean, are we now arguing about how to _structure_ an argument that apparently you needed to plan but I'm certainly not in the mood for?

But then Art started to talk, and Paul listened anyway, growing more and more desperate by every single thing that Art spelled out for him. Yet Paul let him talk. Art's hand gestures got more and more animated the further he argued his case, and Paul's entire body went cold instead.

Art talked about how, as the singer in the duo and not the writer or the musician, he had always felt inferior, and Paul had never done anything to mitigate that. How even now, so many years later, he would still be bossed around by Paul on stage. How he loved the thrill of singing together with Paul because it struck a deeply resonating chord inside himself and it was just _right_ , and apparently the audience saw it the same way, but how he hated the spite and anger and heartbreak that was sure to follow. How he was getting tired about the constant jokes about their split, because while the public laughed and the press ate it up, Art was dying inside. Because while he had craved a break from Simon & Garfunkel as much as Paul had, Art hadn’t been ready at all for the split to be permanent. Then he went on about how horribly useless Paul made him feel when he wiped his vocals of Think Too Much and proceeded to marry Carrie straight after. Cast away on both fronts. About how in performances Paul always wanted it his way, with his band, the arrangements always becoming less and less suitable for Art’s voice, or as Paul has once said, ‘the wrong harmonies for his songs’. And where in all of that, had they become so wrong for each other?

And in retrospect, Paul should have seen this coming from a mile away, and he wondered momentarily why he hadn’t, but Art ended his ramblings with “and all of this stems from the contract you signed with Sid behind my—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Paul yelled, standing up from his end of the couch and starting to pace in front of the coffee table. “Are you still on about _that_?”

Art raised the wine glass to his mouth and drank two mouthfuls, then set it down again, perhaps a tad less gentle than the care with which glasses should be handled.

“How many times have I already apologized for the record that I made?” Paul continued, his blood pressure rising. “In 1958. It’s been 32 years of this…this grudge you keep holding. I was 16 years old, do you really expect a teenager to have all the wisdom in the world and not make mistakes? It was a _mistake_ , Art. Why can’t you just accept that I made a mistake, take my apology and move on? Jesus. Get over it.” Paul once again rubbed his temple and raked a hand through his hair.

“I _can’t,”_ Art said, following Paul’s pacing with his eyes. “I don’t know if I ever will get over it.”

“Why are you telling me this then? I thought you came here to expel some demons and then start fresh. I don’t call this starting fresh, do you? You just want to rehash age-old arguments between us, and for what? Why are you here, Art? Tell me, because I have no fucking clue why I’m standing here arguing with you about something you will never forgive me for.”

“I am mentioning this, specifically, because I think deep down you’re still the same person, Paul. I just want you to see that. Do with that information what you want. Even after thirty years, you’re still willing to cast me aside just as easily as it was then. You broke my heart when you recorded that single without me, and you’re still breaking my heart every time we get together and I’m forced to remember that you’re still the same heartless bastard.”

Paul whipped his head around, staring Art right in the face. He stopped pacing right in front of Art’s sitting form on the couch, the coffee table the only barrier between them. “Are you kidding me? If there was any casting aside going on, it was _you_. _You_ went to Mexico. I begged you not to go. And when you did anyway, I begged you to come back early. I _needed_ you, Art. I needed you then and you were off to some deserted shithole of a place in Mexico, too busy hanging with your new actor friends to even write me a back a letter,” Paul bristled. “That’s when _you_ broke _my_ heart. Because in case you didn’t know, Arthur, I _do_ have one too. I too am capable of feeling things.”

Art’s face grew dark, too, the grooves in his forehead reaching a depth that Paul had seldom seen. “Stop fooling yourself into believing you needed me, Paul. You never needed anyone, least of all me. You made that very clear the first time in 1958 and then when you just went off on your own after Bridge and didn’t even bother telling me that we were over.”

“I distinctly remember writing songs about how I did _not_ enjoy you leaving,” Paul countered.

“Oh, yeah, those two songs, one of which I had to sing about myself and how you and Roy longed to bid me farewell already. Now _that_ was joyful,” Art said, a wry and bitter smile on his lips.

“Two songs? The whole album was written for you, you absolute moron,” Paul spat, “if only you hadn’t been so self-involved—”

“What?” Art asked, his voice wavering and a note of something in there that was unlike anything Paul had ever heard coming from Art. “What did you say?” he added, his voice dropped to almost a whisper.

Paul froze. Hadn’t Art known that practically every song on the Bridge album was either written to him, for him or partially about him? Paul remembered the lonely nights, the phone call to Mexico that had left him in tears, the letters that remained unanswered, all the things that he didn’t say to Art but should have, and then it was over. The sound of silence between them unquestionable and infinite.

“You left first, Artie,” Paul said, his voice broken and tears threatening to spill out. He willed them back down. “I just did what I had to do to protect myself, back then. The only way I knew how.”

“Paul, I didn’t leave,” Art responded, frustrated. “I went and did the movie because[ I thought it would be good for the image of the duo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fKj4feO5ptM&t=250s). An accomplished singer-songwriter and a singer-actor.”

“Art, come on now, don’t twist the truth. You thought movies were the better art form, better than our music. You did Carnal Knowledge straight after the first movie. You wanted to make a name for yourself, out of spite, or whatever reason it was. You were angry at me, had been for years, so of course you left. And I can, on some level, appreciate that you would put that kind of distance between the two of us. But I mean, what did you expect? That I’d just sit around and wait for you to grow tired of your new friends and come running back to me and that we’d just pick up where we left off? You made your choice then, now stick with it.”

At that, Art leapt up from the couch as well, and crowded into Paul’s space. “Are you saying you want me out of your life again? Is that what you’re saying?” Art asked, his finger poking violently in Paul’s chest.

“That is so not what I—”

But Art was on a roll, so he didn’t wait for Paul to finish. “Because that couldn’t be further from the truth in my case. That wasn’t the choice I made. I didn’t even make a choice, there was no choice, in my mind, then. But, if you want to know, and if you would ask me again, given the choice between staying in Simon & Garfunkel and going off to make movies, I’d fucking choose us, Paul. We were good together, on and off the stage. I’d choose you, every damn time.”

“But back then—” Paul tried to intervene, but Art wouldn’t let him talk, which was starting to become rather annoying.

“You know what, enough about that time,” Art interrupted again. “Let’s talk about how we are getting inducted in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and you couldn’t even say one nice word about me. You also said you weren’t going to…no, let me say this first,” Art said, when he saw Paul opening his mouth and taking in a breath to reply. Paul closed his mouth again and waited. “You said you weren’t going to prepare anything, and then you go on for minutes, making me look like a complete fool for the brevity of my speech. Thanks for that.”

“What on earth are you talking about? I said you [had the best voice in the neighborhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fC3T--UfL-A&t=565s). I said I was on the road with my [best friend](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fC3T--UfL-A&t=963s) and what more could I want? Were you even listening?”

“All I remember is that you said we argued all the time, like always.”

“Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it? I mean, what do you think we are doing right now? We see each other and we are at each other’s throats, that’s just how it goes. That’s how it’s always been.” Paul took a step back, trying to reclaim some of his personal space, as Art was still in front of him and he could feel Art’s angry energy coursing through the air between them, settling on his skin and sticking to it like a fine mist. Art just followed him and stayed close. It made Paul nervous, and he kind of wanted to move back to the couch, but Art kept on pushing him backwards with the particular way he held his body and just trailed after him.

“But why?” Art blurted, something like defiance weaved in his voice. “Why does it have to be like that? Why can’t we just work things out like normal people?”

“Because you hold grudges and you and I, we’re not normal people. It’s like we’ve never learned to co-exist without ending up resenting each other. We fall out. It’s just what it is. It happened in 1958, it happened in 1970, in 1983, and no doubt it’ll happen again,” Paul answered, matter-of-factly.

“There’s a reason why I hold grudges. Your ego always puts me on the back burner, I’m always one step behind you, and time and again you just drop me like a brick when you’re getting bored of me. Fame really did a number on you,” Art scoffed. “How could you become so cold and cruel, Paul? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, of the way you treat people who are supposed to be your friends?”

Paul held Art’s gaze, his eyes ablaze. If he could have shot bullets at Art with his eyes, he would have. “Now we’re just going in circles. You don’t get to point the finger at me for dropping you, when _you’re_ the one who’s always leaving first, going on your stupid walks for months on end, or fleeing to Mexico, or whatever. I’m just going on with my life,” he bit back.

“Again, I – did – not – _fucking_ – leave. _I_ wouldn’t,” Art shouted, emphasizing each word with a shove at Paul’s shoulders, as if he was willing Paul to get the veracity of his statement through his head with each touch.

“Stay the hell away from me,” Paul screeched back, “don’t you fucking touch me.” Paul put another step back, desperately trying to distance himself from Art, who was towering over him and radiating fury in front of him, lest they both lost control over the situation and used physical force to get their point across. As livid as they both were, Paul didn’t want to hit Art or be hit.

Art seemed to get the picture and stayed rooted to the spot, hands balled into fists and his muscles as tense as could be.

“You are the biggest prick I have ever met,” Art hissed. “And you were right. I shouldn’t have hoped that coming here would solve anything.” With a defeated look in his eye, Art turned around and took a step forward to the couch, intent on grabbing his jacket. “I should go,” he added, uselessly.

The continued insults and name-calling kept Paul from calming down, and he was still too thoroughly worked up to let it slide. “You know, I’m wondering about one thing,” he said, his voice slightly lowering to match Art’s. “You accuse me of being heartless, you accuse me of casting you aside, you say I’ve been making your entire life miserable. Then why on god’s earth _do_ you come crawling back every time? We don’t we just…cut our losses and accept that whatever it is between us has run its course? Why do you insist on coming back every time for us to make amends, if it’s going to end in more misery anyway? Do you like the pain and the resentments, or what? Why don’t we just call it quits right here and now and save ourselves a lot of bitterness?”

Art, his back turned to Paul, stiffened. He spun back around, and stared at Paul, his face ashen. “Is that what you want?” he questioned. “Do you want me to walk out of your life now forever, is that it?”

“I—” Paul swallowed. It was not what he wanted, was it? He didn’t know anymore what he wanted. “You haven’t answered any of my questions. Why are you here? Why do you keep coming back? Why put yourself through that, and put me through that?” Paul said, trying to divert the attention from the fact that he realized that the very last thing he wanted was for him and Art to never see each other again. “Why can’t you let us go?” he said at last, and when his lower lip started trembling, Paul wished Art wasn’t scrutinizing him like he was doing at that moment.

“Are you—,” Art started, his face turning even more colorless than before, “are you honestly asking me why I can’t let you go?”

“Yes! Enlighten me. If you hate me that much, then why—”

“Because I am in love with you, you stupid idiot,” Art screamed at him. “I’ve been in love with you for the better part of thirty-five years! Me and you is all I’ve ever known. Believe me, if I knew how to quit you, I would have, ages ago.”

There would have been complete silence then, had it not been for the fact that Art’s breathing had become frenzied, him panting as if he’d just run a marathon, his nostrils flaring to accommodate the amount of air he had to suck in. “Oh, god—” Art murmured to himself, the color returning to his face at an alarmingly fast rate, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had said and was now fighting to stave off a panic attack.

Paul reacted out of instinct; but in retrospect, there was nothing he could have or would have done differently. He surged forward, fisted his hand in Art’s shirt and yanked him forward. For two agonizing seconds, it seemed as if Art wouldn’t cooperate, but then Paul found Art’s mouth going pliant under his, the tension in Art’s shoulders dissipating and Art’s arms coming up to envelop Paul in a passionate embrace. Art couldn’t get close enough, it seemed, pulling Paul flush against his chest. Paul willingly went along, as if he wanted to disappear into the other person’s skin.

The kiss turned into something incensed, something oddly dangerous, like an electric current waiting for a puddle of water and a body to electrocute. Paul’s stomach did crazy things, butterflies the size of bats in there fluttering around, threatening to erupt out of his throat and fly away with him. Art’s tongue pushing through his teeth in long, sweeping motions and Art’s lips chasing after his had always been the most intoxicating feeling ever. There was nothing else like it. It had been a few years since they last did this, but it felt as if their first kiss happened only just yesterday, the nerves and simultaneous feeling of coming home after a long trip bubbling up inside him again as if he was back to being sixteen years old. Paul felt weightless, addicted to the familiarity of kissing Art, dizzy with need for more.

So he pushed Art. He pushed him toward the couch, his hands still pawing at Art’s shirt. He tried to open buttons with his eyes closed, meanwhile concentrating on steering Art further backwards, and tried not to break the kiss in the process. In their clumsy attempt to cross the room while clutching at each other, Paul bumped rather hard into the coffee table. He hissed into Art’s mouth when a flash of pain shot up his shin, and winced when he realized that the tell-tale clang he heard straight after was one of the glasses falling down.

“The wine—” Art mumbled against Paul’s teeth, the vibrations of his voice sending shivers up Paul’s back. The last button popped open and Paul hurried to hook his hands under Art’s shirt, effectively sliding it down Art’s arms and causing it to drop to the floor, where it lay, already forgotten. Paul tore his mouth away from Art’s and diverted its attention to Art’s nipple that grew instantly hard under the warm swirl of Paul’s tongue. “I couldn’t care less about the wine,” Paul told Art between licking and sucking the brown areola.

“But it’s so expens—”

“God, will you just shut up?” Paul told him, half smiling, and gave him one last push, causing Art to fall backwards and sink into the cushions. Paul instantly went down on his knees between Art’s legs and let his hands roam across Art’s thighs, stopping only when he reached the edge of the belt which he managed to unbuckle swiftly, followed by the zipper he pulled down, memories of chaotic hotel room fumblings and hurried, hidden kisses on tour burning behind his retinas. _Of course_ he’d been just as crazy in love with his partner, but neither of them had ever come to the point of telling the other just how deep the emotion ran in the shared thrill of fame and fortune; missed opportunities and conflicts aplenty instead. Until Art in all of his anger had just blurted it out now, overcome with fear of unrequitedness straight after. Paul was just going to have to show Art how much all of it rang true for him as well.

One of Art’s hands shot up, cradling the back of Paul’s neck while Paul, though already thoroughly acquainted with Art’s body anatomy, freed Art’s stiff cock from his underwear and gave it a long, appreciative look before connecting his mouth to it in one, swift motion of swallowing down. Art moaned, and the sound made all the hairs on Paul’s body stand up straight. Paul _was_ sixteen again, hungrily savouring the saltiness and the particularly compelling flavor of Art on his taste buds. 

Paul worked diligently, squeezing and tugging in all the right places, applying pressure with his mouth and tongue on the head and along the shaft, just where he knew Art liked it. Paul’s vast knowledge of how to make Art come paid off: it didn’t take long for Art’s breathing to speed up again, the fingers in Paul’s hair clawing around desperately, as if Art wanted to sink them inside Paul’s skull.

“Paul—” Art warned, his voice trembling. Paul just nodded and hummed, deciding that he was too aroused to be in the mood for clean-up, so he just kept his mouth where it was, attached to Art’s dick, bobbing up and down when he felt Art tense and warm liquid flowed against the insides of his cheeks and down his throat. The slightly bitter taste of the sperm left his throat feeling kind of numb, but he swallowed it all down, looking up at his lover whose mouth was hanging half open, a flush high on Art’s cheeks. Art was looking back at him with eyes that seemed to struggle to keep open, pleasure visible in the slight upturn of the corners of Art’s mouth.

“Come here,” Art said hoarsely, and he pulled Paul up to straddle his lap. Only now Paul became aware of his own cock, straining against the fabric of his jeans. Art followed Paul’s gaze when he looked down. “Do you have anything?” Art asked, mesmerized. “I want you to—” Art staked a claim to Paul’s mouth again instead of finishing his sentence.

Paul instantly knew what Art was asking. What he was _offering_. “I don’t,” Paul said, pecking Art’s mouth, “have anything. Not here anyway.” Paul moved to Art’s neck, trailing soft kisses in the grooves there, before paying attention to Art’s earlobe. “Besides, I thought we[ both decided we wouldn’t do that anymore](https://www.artgarfunkel.com/stillwater/poem5.html),” Paul said in his ear, a teasing hint audible in his words. That had been quite the night, about seven years ago. That had also been the last time they had done any of this before anger and resentment once again ruled their interactions.

Art laughed. “That was when we were both drunk. I can still taste that tequila.” Then his face turned serious again. “I’m not drunk now. I want you to,” he said, looking at Paul carefully, as if gauging a reaction he was still afraid of receiving.

“I know,” Paul said, flicking a hand through Art’s thinning hair. “But if I have to go to the bedroom to get stuff, my dick will have shriveled up to the size of a small mushroom by the time I get back. We’re not twenty-five anymore,” he laughed, and he was pleased to see the crinkles by Art’s eyes mirroring his own in amusement. “I love you, but you can’t rob me of my well-deserved orgasm.”

“You love me?” Art asked, his voice small and hopeful.

“Of course I do, you idiot. Now, stop stalling and suck my cock,” he directed enthusiastically, while hoisting himself up to his knees, bringing his hips to the right height.

“Jesus, still bossy as ever,” Art said, but he helped pull Paul’s trousers down and eagerly complied with the suggestion.

+

“What are you doing?” Paul asked Art when Art’s head lay plastered to his chest, the both of them cuddling on the couch, which, Paul thought, he had thankfully bought large enough to fit the both of them in length. Its width was another matter, but since they were practically glued to each other at the side, there was just enough room to accommodate them both. Paul’s every limb was sleeping, but he felt he couldn’t be bothered with moving.

“I’m learning[ the pace of your heartbeat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=twNOI_r1kVE&t=525s),” Art said. His index finger trailed a path through Paul’s chest hair, sometimes flicking over his nipple.

“You are the biggest sap on earth,” Paul replied, thinly veiled affection appearing between the syllables.

“You’re one to talk,” Art said, raising his head to look at Paul. “Is Bridge really about me?”

Paul sighed, sadness that went back twenty years suddenly permeating every cell in his body when he thought back about that time. “Yes. But that wasn’t me being sappy.” His one hand brushed over Art’s shoulder blade and down his back, as far as he could reach. “We were breaking up. Both the duo and us. I was angry and sad, and disappointed. Those were not happy times.”

“I know. Please believe me when I say that if I knew then what I know now, I never would have taken on the role.”

Paul stayed quiet for a moment, contemplating what Art was saying. “Artie, it doesn’t matter,” he said at last. “You would have started resenting me anyway for keeping you back from doing other things. And it’s not like—” He stopped, a lump forming in his throat that was hard to swallow down.

“Like what?” Art drawed.

Paul looked at him. “Like we could have ever… _been_ anything. In this life.”

“That’s so…fatalistic of you,” Art said, quietly.

“Art, I mean, what are we _doing_ anyway? You are _married_ , for fuck’s sake. And I’m dating Edie, and she’s lovely. She’s everything I want. I…why are we doing this?” Slight panic was rising in his chest, bubbling up to the surface.

“Paul,” Art said, and he raised a hand to put a finger on Paul’s lips. “I love my wife. God knows I loved Laurie. And I’m sure you loved Carrie a lot, and you love Edie.” He traced the curve of Paul’s upper lip with his finger. “But you—” Art hesitated for a split second. “You are the love of my life.” He said it like it was the simplest thing in the universe. “I’m sure we’ll have more arguments, and we’ll mess things up again, like we always do,” Art said, a bitter edge to his voice. “But I will never, ever stop loving you. I will want to do this—” He gestured between their bodies. “Forever. Even though we can’t be together.”

Paul squeezed the warm skin of Art’s back beneath his fingers. “Like I said, a total sap, you are.” He smiled at Art, hoping it conveyed a rather similar sentiment towards him in the process.

“Maybe we should tell them,” Art mused.

“Tell who?”

“Kim and Edie. About us. Don’t you feel a bit guilty?”

Paul laughed. “I feel plenty guilty. Though I don’t know. It feels wrong to feel guilty for loving you.” Art blinked at him. “Yeah. Let’s not, though. Tell them,” Paul continued. "No amount of guilt will warrant the backlash of _that_ particular conversation. We’ll just end up miserable and we still won’t get what we want.” Paul removed his hand from Art’s back and curled it into Art’s hair instead.

Art hummed. He lowered his head again and rested his cheek on Paul’s chest. “Have you written more lyrics about me?” he asked, coyly.

“All the damn time,” Paul admitted, twirling his fingers around a curl on Art’s head.

“You have?” Art raised and turned his head again, a greedy look in his eye.

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s only a few songs per album,” Paul said, slapping the back of Art’s head playfully.

“A few…per _album_?” Art repeated, gobsmacked. “Which ones? Why didn’t I know?”

“Unlike you,[ Mr. Still Water](https://www.paulsimon.com/track/the-cool-cool-river-5/), I manage to shroud my lyrics in mystery and remain cryptic. Changing a few pronouns here and there,” Paul smiled. “Whereas you[ couldn’t have been more obvious](https://www.artgarfunkel.com/stillwater/poem48.html) you’re writing about me.”

“You read my poems?” Art asked, more than a little delighted.

“Well, you did send me a copy, didn’t you?”

“True, but I never thought you’d actually read them. I figured you’d still be angry and burn my book at the stake as soon as you received it,” Art told him sheepishly.

“Funny thing. Turns out I’m not as impartial to you as you might think, even when I’m pissed at you.”

“And then you accuse _me_ of being a sap,” Art said, removing one of Paul’s chest hairs from between his teeth.

Paul reached his hand out across the table and managed to pick up the still standing glass of wine. He brought it to his lips and took a sip, offering the glass to Art. Art looked up but shook his head. “No, thanks. That’s going to stain,” he motioned his chin to the spilt wine on the wooden surface of the table. Paul shrugged. “Oh well. I’ll clean it up later. If it stains, that’s a lasting reminder of our conversation. Speaking of which, was this visit what you were looking for?”

Art breathed out slowly. “Yes and no,” he said. “I didn’t particularly care for the first part of the discussion. But the second part was alright, I suppose,” he said on a neutral tone, cleverly wiggling his eyebrows.

“So eloquently worded,” Paul teased. “I already wonder how you’re going to put this in a poem.”

“Shut up.”

“So, do you think you’re going to give me that asterisk, on your list?” Paul continued, a mischievous smile playing around his lips.

“I may even give you two,” Art answered.

“Only two?”

“Tell you what, I’ll give you three if you tell me which lyrics you wrote about me.”

Paul scoffed. “In that case, I want at least five and another blowjob later.”

“Deal.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Paul Simon! Yay! <3


End file.
